Brutal Telling

Then he had it. He smiled. Instead of wearing Chanel this chatelaine was wearing Cheval. And not just horse, but a haughty undercurrent of horse shit.

Gabri’s spirits lifted. At least his place smelled of muffins.

“It’s Gabriel Dubeau,” Dominique announced to the room. The fire was lit and an older man was standing staring into it. Carole Gilbert sat in an armchair and Marc was by the drinks tray. They all looked up.

Chief Inspector Gamache had never seen the bistro so empty. He sat in an armchair by the fire and Havoc Parra brought him a drink.

“Quiet night?” he asked as the young man put down the Scotch and a plate of Quebec cheese.

“Dead,” Havoc said and reddened a little. “But it’ll probably pick up.”

They both knew that wasn’t true. It was six thirty. The height of what should be the cocktail and predinner rush. Two other customers sat in the large room while a small squadron of waiters waited. For a rush that would never come. Not that night. Perhaps not ever again.

Three Pines had forgiven Olivier a lot. The body had been dismissed as bad luck. Even Olivier knowing about the Hermit and the cabin had been shrugged off. Not easily, granted. But Olivier was loved and with love there was leeway. They’d even managed to forgive Olivier’s moving the body. It was seen as a kind of grand mal on his part.

But that had ended when they’d found out that Olivier had secretly made millions of dollars off a recluse who was probably demented. Over the course of years. And then had quietly bought up most of Three Pines. He was Myrna’s, Sarah’s and Monsieur Béliveau’s landlord.

This was Olivierville, and the natives were restless. The man they had thought they knew was a stranger after all.

“Is Olivier here?”

“In the kitchen. He let the chef off and decided to do the cooking himself tonight. He’s a terrific cook, you know.”

Gamache did know, having enjoyed his private meals a number of times. But he also knew this decision to cook allowed Olivier to hide. In the kitchen. Where he didn’t have to see the accusing, unhappy faces of people who were his friends. Or worse still, see the empty chairs where friends once sat.

“I wonder if you could ask him to join me?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Please.”

In that one word Chief Inspector Gamache conveyed that while it might sound like a polite request, it wasn’t. A couple of minutes later Olivier lowered himself into the chair across from Gamache. They needn’t worry about keeping their voices down. The bistro was now empty.

Gamache leaned forward, took a sip of Scotch, and watched Olivier closely.

“What does the name Charlotte mean to you?”

Olivier’s brows went up in surprise. “Charlotte?” He thought for a few moments. “I’ve never known a Charlotte. I knew a girl named Charlie once.”

“Did the Hermit ever mention the name?”

“He never mentioned any name.”

“What did you talk about?”

Olivier heard again the dead man’s voice, not deep but somehow calming. “We talked about vegetable gardens and building and plumbing. He learned from the Romans, the Greeks, the early settlers. It was fascinating.”

Not for the first time Gamache wished there’d been a third chair in that cabin, for him. “Did he ever mention Caesar’s Shift?”

Once again Olivier looked perplexed, then shook his head.

“How about the Queen Charlotte Islands?” Gamache asked.

“In British Columbia? Why would he talk about them?”

“Is anyone in Three Pines from BC that you know?”

“People’re from all over, but I can’t remember anyone from British Columbia. Why?”

Gamache brought out the sculptures and placed them on the table so that the ship looked to be running from the cheese, and the cheese, runny, seemed to be chasing it.

“Because these are. Or at least, the wood is. It’s red cedar from the Queen Charlottes. Let’s start again,” Gamache said quietly. “Tell me what you know about these sculptures.”

Olivier’s face was impassive. Gamache knew that look. It was the look of a liar, caught. Trying to find the last way out, the back door, the crack. Gamache waited. He sipped his Scotch and smoothed a bit of cheese on the very excellent nut bread. He placed a slice in front of Olivier then prepared one for himself. He ate and waited.

“The Hermit carved them,” said Olivier, his voice even, flat.

“You’ve told us that already. You also told us he gave you some and you threw them into the forest.”

Gamache waited, knowing the rest would come out now. He looked through the window and noticed Ruth walking Rosa. The duck, for some reason, was wearing a tiny, red raincoat.

“I didn’t throw them away. I kept them,” Olivier whispered, and the world beyond the circle of light from the fireplace seemed to disappear. It felt as though the two men were in their own little cabin. “I’d been visiting the Hermit for about a year when he gave me the first.”

“Can you remember what it was?”

“A hill, with trees. More like a mountain really. And a boy lying on it.”

“This one?” Gamache brought out the photo Thérèse Brunel had given him.